


i never thought about love when i thought about home (i’m on a blood buzz)

by moonbeatblues



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, i’m big sleepy but i’d like to continue this, maybe veronica/cheryl, we shall see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 09:43:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16093076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbeatblues/pseuds/moonbeatblues
Summary: You have the sudden, fuzzy sort of impression that Veronica Lodge is an unfamiliar, acute sort of lonely.It’s been a long time since you’ve felt needed. Maybe you never really have, before.And Veronica, well. You think she’s needed someone for a long time.





	1. (you were) carried to ohio in a swarm of bees

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from bloodbuzz ohio by the national  
> (in my head, riverdale is a lot more like the part of norcal i visit in the summers than in actuality)

There’s a lot you want to do for Veronica Lodge, while you can.

 

And maybe you’re not sure she deserves it, anymore, and maybe she wouldn’t for you. But it doesn’t really matter.

It’s nice to be needed, and it’s even nicer to be wanted.

—

 

Veronica arrives in the summer— the slow, melting summer, days bright and dreary all at once.

 

You don’t remember it, now, but you heard about it back in May— some New York mogul bought up one of the Blossom’s vestigial properties on the edge of town. You heard he wanted to lay low and ride out the news cycle, you heard he wanted his daughter to grow up in a real town, you heard she was the one leaking her daddy’s secrets to the press and that this was her punishment.

 

Punishment, indeed. God knows Riverdale’s been your Purgatory for a long time.

And, like in those long and misty Asphodel fields, news of the above ground floats in, barely audible and dissolved before it every really registers.

There are far too many long days to do anything but forget.

-

Cheryl thinks, and _god_ , if she still isn’t making absolutely certain everyone knows what she’s thinking, it’s something more surreptitious. She won’t say Jason— no one will— but you know it’s bitter and urgent under her tongue.

 

Not that you’re trying too hard, these days, to suss out what’s going on in Cheryl Blossom’s head.

You’ve got some sort of long-standing undercurrent going, you and Cheryl. The tails-side to gay solidarity, maybe. Somehow, the silent knowledge that you’re like each other ends up with her at your throat.

She’s only ever called you a dyke once— spit it at you, more accurately— after Vixens practice, in the steaming, wary air of the locker room, for looking her way.

 

And oh, you’ve seen Cheryl, sitting all prim and put-together on Josie McCoy’s lap in that same hall of the locker room, leaning in all delicate and near-surgical with those red nails and redder lips.

Cheryl only really lashes out when she’s downright _afraid_ , and that day, you didn’t stop your reflex to just laugh. Full-bellied and barking, and still hollow.

-

You meet Veronica in the late morning.

 

Pop’s has this Stranger Things season 1 vibe that’s utterly lost to the daylight. The neon gets all flat blue and pink under the sun, and the place stops being a lighthouse, a haven from the woods.

In the day, it’s just a diner a little too far from downtown that stays open because there’s nowhere else for kids to eat, and, a few years later, nowhere else for them to work.

 

You’re nursing a milkshake and the last of your fries, watching the tar of the road start to grow shiny and puddling in the heat and, much more immediately and attentively, the unfamiliar cab swinging into the parched lot.

You blink, quietly startled. Even the Blossoms don’t bother getting chauffeured around town.

 

The car’s a dark, elegant streak under the pallid sky, and it’s peeling out again as soon as someone steps out the passenger side.

 

Well. Not just anyone.

And Cheryl, for all that she is, is not always wrong.

 

Veronica Lodge breezes coolly into the diner, aloft with convection on the inward draft of thick July air, and you take a languid sip of your milkshake. Feigning disinterest.

 

There’s a hooded look you have to take on, being one of Riverdale’s home-grown aberrations— _deviants_ , as Cheryl’s mother would call you (what she’d call her daughter, if she could see past her own nose)— it’s all about disguising intrigue as suspicion.

 

But, well, Veronica is Veronica.

You, you’d play the long con, not that you’ve ever really played.

Veronica, she prefers the shortest path. C squared and all that jazz.

 

So, she sidles into the opposite bench of your booth, sunglasses perched past her forehead.

 

You don’t move.

(You are good at not moving.)

 

“Betty Cooper—” she almost sings, “it’s nice to meet you.”

 

“And who is it that’s meeting me, exactly?”

Almost everything about this girl is dark, and red.

Not Cheryl’s maraschino-red, no; the day you meet Veronica she’s in her favorite dress, the deep red-purple one that matches her lipstick.

Later, you learn she likes to save it for special occasions.

 

She extends one hand across the table. Nails long, acrylic and wine-red to match her dress, her mouth.

“Veronica. Lodge.”

 

You flatten the knuckles of your hand against the bench before shaking.

“Betty. But I guess you already knew that.”

 

Veronica is not the type to blush. Not at words, anyway; she takes the shallow little dig head on, shrugs.

“I do my research.”

 

“Oh, yeah? What research is that?”

 

“Just getting the lay of the land. Heard you were the girl to know, and that you have a loose definition of breakfast.”

 

Bullshit.

You wonder if she’s heard about Polly. Prepare to lie, as usual.

 

“Really? Not Cheryl Blossom?”

 

“Oh, we’re already acquainted.” You note the shift in tone, the drop to something a little more exasperated. “I don’t think she likes me very much, though.”

 

If you know anything about Cheryl, you know that Veronica Lodge probably interests her a _whole_ lot.

But you keep quiet much better.

 

“Well, that makes two of us.”

 

“Ah, so you _are_ the girl to know.” She reaches for your glass, takes the straw delicately between those wine-dark lips, and raises her eyebrows.

(Sue you, it’s kinda hot.)

 

But still, you drop your eyes to the table. “I’m not really the gossipy type.”

God knows rumors get people killed in a town like this.

God knows they already have.

 

“Oh, that’s not what I meant. I just wanted to start off on the right foot, y’know? Find the things that are real.”

 

“So.” Veronica flicks her sunglasses back down to the bridge of her nose.

“Wanna take me for a ride, Betty Cooper?”

—

 

One of the nicest things about Riverdale is leaving it— it’s a long and winding road back to the highway, through those dark, heat-heavy woods.

You’ve got the windows rolled all the way down— the thick air turns sweet and cool when you’re passing through it this fast, and Veronica’s got one arm draped out over the passenger side door.

She’s quiet, for a little while, and then:

 

“Didn’t peg you as the classical kinda gal, Betty Cooper.”

 

Your face colors. Never has your full name sounded so nice out of someone else’s mouth— for composure’s sake, you almost wish she’d stop saying it.

“Yeah, well, my mom made me start piano lessons a long time ago.”

 

She hums, appreciative. “You still play?”

 

“Yeah. Took a while to grow on me, but it’s something to do.”

 

You brace yourself for her to ask if you’ll play something for her, but she lets it drop.

It’s especially fortunate for you, because it’s annoying when _anyone_ asks, but you don’t think you’d be able to refuse her.

(Refusing Veronica— it’s not something you get better at.)

 

“Where are we going, anyway?” She asks, sounding a little distant. When you look, she’s got her eyes drifting out the window, to the tops of the trees.

 

“You have no survival instinct, you know that? I could tell you anywhere, and you’d never know, this far from service. I could be driving you to my personal murder cabin.”

 

The impassivity of her face breaks, and she smiles, wine-red at you.

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Her voice sends a shiver rolling down your back, and you curl your toes in your shoes.

“But I think I like you, Betty Cooper. Don’t go making me change my mind.”

 

And, well, you’re not stupid.

Needless to say, Veronica isn’t, either. You wonder if she thinks you’ll go down all easy and sweet, if she thinks she can press her thumbs in you and pull you up with so little work. You wonder if she thinks you’re buying the flippant thing.

Either way, it’s not working.

Either way, you let it go.

 

“There’s a lake about an hour outside of town. Sometimes there are bonfires, but this time of year no one bothers to drive up.”

 

You push a few errant strands of hair out of your eyes.

“It should be plenty quiet.”

-

And it is.

 

Lake may have been somewhat of a strong word, but it’s still a certifiable little oasis. A swimming hole, at the very least.

Beyond the water dragging at the gravelly shore and the wind stirring the branches, it’s almost completely still.

Like the sun is rendering everything in amber, heavy and warm.

 

You hike up your jeans to step into the shallows, and Veronica follows you.

 

She isn’t expecting the cold— you know it.

Veronica squeals— honest to god _squeals_ — and grabs for your forearms. Holds on.

 

“I guess I should’ve mentioned,” you say, a little dizzy. “It’s glacier melt.”

-

After a little while of wading and numb feet, you retire to a big, flat rock in the sun.

 

“Thanks.” Veronica says.

Quiet as you’ve heard her, so far, and with no jaunt to her voice. “For bothering.”

 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Of course.”

And you mean it.

You have the sudden, fuzzy sort of impression that Veronica Lodge is an unfamiliar, acute sort of lonely.

 

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt needed. Maybe you never really have, before.

Maybe it’s why you’re so open like this, right away. Why you drive this girl up to somewhere you reserve for those late nights, when town feels so small it’s like it’s all sitting square on your chest and you just have to _go_.

 

And Veronica, well. You think she’s needed someone for a long while.


	2. she was a victim of the same disease (and i can understand how a girl gets bored)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ended up being a lot more cheryl-centric than i was anticipating  
> (favorite character whom?????)  
> in this au, betty's already in the vixens because for all that veronica is, betty has been living in riverdale for too long to not actually be a part of it, and there's no way she and cheryl don't have history as those two closeted kids playing gay chicken)

Of all the seasons in Riverdale, summer always bleeds over into fall with the least upset.

Before September's out there's frost beading on the grass in the mornings, and it's getting dark before dinner. Those Friday night football games turn into flame for the high-school moth— under the buzzing floodlights there's something cathartic, ritualistic to it all, it's like tapping into something sleeping under the town, and summer rolls easy onto its belly to make way.

You'd spent those last, long days with Veronica— your mom loves her, unsurprisingly, and you'd gotten used to waiting for her at Pop's before the blinding noon hit.

Veronica never invites you to her house, and you try not to mind. (You don't do a very good job.)

You weren't quite prepared to see the Veronica of autumn— it's something ominous, a little alienating.

Here, with the days growing clipped and cold, Veronica does everything for a reason. It's a family business you haven't been privy to, before, to inhabit spaces so _deliberately_. And, in this way, it takes too long for you to realize.

—

There's something about the way you met, something still sun-sleepy and unspoken that evaporates when Veronica decides to join the River Vixens. 

Hell, you're _in_ the Vixens, and you can't for the life of you understand why she's so deadset on it over a host of other pursuits. Really, it's your first taste of Veronica as a _Lodge_ , as her parents' child.

 

On Cheryl's strict orders you're not to interfere with Veronica's preparations.

Not that it'd help much; far as you can tell, you got into the Vixens by some strange, shared virtue alone. It's odd, the way Cheryl keeps you so joylessly in reach. She's like a wary dog on one side of a double-ended leash— always wanting to lead, to buoy you along, but absolutely _vicious_ should you get unduly close.

With time, you've gotten good at it, toeing that line.

But, well. Veronica is something else, indeed.

 

Already, it feels like you and Cheryl are vying, unspoken and unbeknownst to anyone else. You know Cheryl with enough conviction, enough experience, to be right in that she's _very_ interested in Veronica.

Needless to say, there are a great many things you feel about the prospect of Veronica joining the Vixens. These things, you don't tell her. Laissez-faire ~~internalizing~~ as usual.

-

It's not exactly what you're thinking about, though, watching her audition, but you know Veronica out of her element, by now. And this is it.

 

You are good at not moving— out of the very corner of your eye you can see Cheryl's face, still and increasingly sour.

She wanted something unexpected, you know. Cheryl is dangerously like you, and you're well acquainted with your own penchant for latching on to what's new and leaching all the new right out of it.

(If Veronica knew you better, either of you, she's probably say you were like two halves of one being, some accidental watchdog of the town, split right down the middle; you, though, you're not very good at seeing much power in your actions.)

 _She's not going to get in_ , you think, heart confused as to whether to sink or rise. This, you think until the end, when you see Veronica's eyes get glassy and dark. Like she knows she needs something more. 

Like she's already long sure of what that something is.

She downright _stalks_ up to where the three of you— you along with Cheryl and Josie— are sitting. In one smooth motion, she slides the clipboard cleanly out of your hands and drops it along with the pom-pom to the floor. She leans in _dangerously_ close— to where her breath is skating warm against your cheeks and she's almost close enough to see your eyes widen. One of her hands is in your hair, and you almost notice in time.

 

Veronica hangs there, for a long moment, like a Saturn rocket just broken of the atmosphere. Pinned by gravity for a brief, weightless eternity.

Under the dark curtain of her hair, she grins at you, mouth so unfairly close. Next on the list of things you almost notice: Cheryl sighing.

 

And then she leans away.

-

"Well," Cheryl drawls. "That might've been interesting in 1994, when homosexual shenanigans were _actually_ taboo."

You actually have to slap one hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. As if Cheryl would ever be bored by anything like this— taboos can never really lose the interest of those who embody them.

You can see that restrained, calculated gleam to her eyes, and it's still there when she turns to you and knits her eyebrows into a glare.

You withdraw your hand from your mouth and pretend to be sheepish, for her sake as much as your own.

" _As_ I was saying," Cheryl says— you're the only one who catches that fearful little waver, as usual— "you'll have to put in something a lot more genuine in future performances." She examines her nails while confusion blooms on Veronica's face.

"So, I'm— I'm in?"

Cheryl's back in her element and snapping like a shut-in dog. " _Yes_ , you're in."

She pauses. "You'll replace Betty, naturally."

 

"What?"

You and Veronica aren't in perfect unison, but the resonance is there all the same. 

Cheryl's still seemingly fixated on her nails. It's a tactic, you're perfectly familiar— she doesn't like to look people in the eyes. 

"Well, of course. I made it perfectly clear that Vixen interference wasn't allowed."

 

You blink. "But— I didn't—"

"Betty didn't interfere."

Veronica's a little more agitated than you've seen her before. You wonder how hard she was banking on being in the squad with you, and feel suddenly warm. "I didn't tell her I was going to do that."

"Well, then she can blame you for getting her kicked out."

 

There was a time when you would have been afraid. Before you saw Cheryl kissing Josie, maybe. Before she turned up in tears at your door at an ungodly hour to demand to know Polly's whereabouts. You'd talked her down, then, and you can see now that she wants the same thing of Veronica.

That steely glance upward, it's asking Veronica to change Cheryl's mind, Begging, one might even say.

And if there's anyone to trust when it comes to trading blows, it's Veronica Lodge.

"No."

Her voice is low. Not that shivering raspy low; it's angry in a way you haven't heard before. "She stays, or I'm out."

Cheryl finally meets Veronica's gaze. Still calculating, still mutedly giddy. 

 

"Fine." She waves one hand, pretending it's in any way an acquiescence. "We need all the girls we can get this year, after all."

 

You don't stop your grin, this time— Veronica starts, having expected more of a fight, and then _pounces_ on you, there in your seat. She buries her face in your collarbone, arms strung loosely around your neck. Somewhat weakly, you return the embrace.

"God, Lodge," Cheryl sneers— or tries to, rather— "I said you're in. You can stop now."

Dimly, you realize Veronica's sitting square in your lap, knees to either side of your hips.

"Um." You manage, impressively.

 

Veronica only menially lifts her head. "Shut up, Blossom."

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> announcement: homosexual shenanigans is the name of my new band, dm me to join  
> (thank you for reading, i'm @seafleece on tumblr)

**Author's Note:**

> i’m @seafleece on tumblr and @quetzalcoatlmundi for writing; come say hello and/or complain about the deep injustice cw does betty and veronica with me!


End file.
